


Visit the Burrow (I'll Try Not to Bite)

by running_with_stars



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Aprons, Chan's love language? Touch, Early Mornings, Emotions, Fluff, I swear they go hand-in-hand, Kissing, Late at Night, Love, M/M, Making Out, Minho's love language? Acts of service, Oh yes those are the same thing, Romance, Shenanigans, Tenderness, They're just silly, You see them collide here!, chan is going through it, i have no justification for this, i just . . . Wanted To
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 07:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30085845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/running_with_stars/pseuds/running_with_stars
Summary: Chan was usuallygoodat listening to people. Especiallyhispeople. But—but . . .But theoutfit.___(With the artist's permission) inspired bythis comic here! I adore the art style with every fibre of my being and I just had to had to HAD to write something for it.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98





	Visit the Burrow (I'll Try Not to Bite)

**Author's Note:**

> alternatively titled; vague animal metaphors because the kids are force-feeding this furry agenda down my throat and I can only make the best of it.

Chan had a sweet spot. Not the one susceptible to his group’s lighthearted pleas, or the one that sang when he took a particularly satisfying bite of food. No, the sweet spot in question was a much more tumultuous thing, just as much a point of contention as it was a catalyst for success:

There was a period of time, between his initial burst of energy and the zombie-like motions that signalled he should go home soon, wherein Chan hardly felt human. There was a world hidden underneath the keys of his MIDI controller, and just _maybe_ , if he hit the right sequence, he’d learn all its secrets. He was a titan or a fairy or a god, poised on his throne of polyester and metal, with a kingdom of syncopation and instrumentation laid out before him. The lines of his world blurred, and the rush he felt as his fingers danced in front of him carried him through hours of work like a runaway train.

His sweet spot, he called it, because it was not wholly good; because he often pressed it over and over like a jammed elevator button until one or five things came crashing down. It was when he got the most work done; having settled into his chair, with hours ahead of him, everything seemed possible.

The problem in that: you couldn’t stop yourself from attempting the impossible.

Eventually, things came crashing down; semitones became intervals of five, sharps became double-flats, and the black keys on the keyboard were much too colourful. He knew what came next, because while he may make a habit of pushing his limits, he understood the steps he went through to get to his dazed, exhausted state.

Or, at least, he _thought_ he knew. Because instead of the slow descension into fatigue and sluggishness, he only felt restless, as if the walls of his studio had magically sprouted steel bars to cage him in. He hadn’t managed to get that _human_ feeling back, but he certainly felt much more breakable than he had hours ago. _Wilder_ , and no understanding as to why. Suddenly his hoodie was too scratchy, too hot—he shucked it off without a second thought.

The next few moments went on like that, with Chan on a glitched-out autopilot. Once he’d double checked that everything had saved correctly, and that the past hours of work were not at risk of being lost to the digital ether, he practically ran home.

The cold air did a whole lot of nothing for the mood he’d fallen into, but it gave him a moment to pull out his phone for the first time in hours to check if anything had happened. There was the dorm’s need to stock up on lozenges, a potential fire, and a miscommunication that almost resulted in a kidnapping.

Deciding that someone would have come to get him if someone were in danger of dying, he distracted himself with the little green dot next to Minho’s profile picture.

If he hurried up at the prospect of running into Minho for a short conversation before bed, then that was completely reasonable. Minho was great company.

o.O.o

Chan was seeing things.

He should have come home sooner. Spared himself _whatever this was_.

There was, of course, the rational part of his brain that said coming home earlier would ease the hearts of his group, which was always a plus. There was even the practical part of him that said it would probably do him well to stay home sometimes, to feel some tether or another to reality.

But right now was not the moment for _rationality_ , because there was the smell of eggs and sautéed peppers, and _Lee Minho_ in a _frilly apron_ and _knee-high Leebit socks_.

He wasn’t sure what language came flying out of his mouth, but he knew it wasn’t anything to repeat to his mother.

Minho craned his head to the side to eye Chan carefully, the light in his eyes going smug when he saw what had to be Chan’s most dishevelled state. “Well you look like hell.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Have a good time at the studio?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Get a lot done?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Gonna light the place on fire?”

“Uh-huh.” Chan blinked. “Wait, no—”

Minho only let out a gentle laugh through his nose as he turned back to the stove to toss the eggs. “Pity. Could have used it as an excuse to redecorate.”

Chan was usually _good_ at listening to people. Especially _his_ people. But— _but_ . . .

But the _outfit_.

“You—” _Nope, try it again, big guy._ “Where . . .”

Dammit.

Minho was nothing short of preening as he set down a bowl before an empty seat. “Eat. I didn’t make this for you to treat me like the meal instead.”

And, really, what other choice was there but to listen?

Despite the parts of his brain that were still churning like a caveman’s crude wheel, he was able to appreciate every bite of food he indelicately shoved into his mouth. Minho’s cooking, like everything he put his mind to, was bettering every time he turned on the stove. Chan always loved tasting whatever it was he made, even if he didn’t try his hand at it with as much eagerness as Felix.

“Min,” he said gently, “it’s delicious. Thank you.”

Maybe it was the hour—almost seven in the morning, last he’d checked—or maybe it was because they were alone in a nearly blacked-out room, but Minho chewed on the inside of his cheeks as they slowly turned pink. “Just finish it before I take it back.”

It was hard to imagine Minho being anywhere else at the moment. When people were coming and going from the dorm, obligated to one appointment or another, there always seemed to be _Minho_ at the centre of it all, buried deep within their home with a steady hand and heart to guide them away from nonsense and back onto their path. That wasn’t to say that Minho was nothing but a decoration, but Chan appreciated it—appreciated _him_ for all the stability he gave when Chan could barely tell the difference between the continent of Asia and the number three.

When Chan came home at ludicrous hours, Minho was here, in a burrow of steel and warm scents, to remind him to rest his weary limbs and take care of the rest of him.

He zeroed in on the steaming food before he cried for no reason. The bowl was filled up with enough food to feed a small wolf—or a big dog, or maybe even a tiny bear—but Chan cleared it without much consideration for the portion size. He didn’t think about the last time he’d eaten, because the risk of a headache just thinking about it was too great, and the moment before him too precious to be ruined with said headache.

He had enough courtesy to bring his bowl to the sink.

Not nearly enough to stop himself from putting his hands on Minho’s hips.

 _Pretty. He’s pretty_. _Pretty pretty_.

Who said he couldn’t write a love song?

“I could spray you with water,” Minho said, putting in every bit of his faux haughtiness that Chan adored when they were being silly.

“You could,” he agreed. He should have had more shame about spinning Minho around so their fronts were pressed together. “Won’t get me to move though.”

Minho poised the sink’s hose between them. Narrowed his eyes. Chan stood strong, completely occupied with the way Minho seemed to be leaning into him.

He honestly, _truly_ did not expect the spray of water that hit his face.

He couldn’t help the little yelp he let out, nor the way he batted at his nose as if a butterfly had landed on it. Minho was a lost cause, laughing into his palm in an effort to curb his noise. Soon enough they were both red in the face, leaning into each other as if they could make each other stop laughing for _just a minute_.

“You’re insane,” Chan whispered, voice tight with every unreleased giggle.

“Maybe,” Minho replied, just as soft and strained, “but that’s why you love me.”

“Huh.” Chan leaned forward, content to watch Minho’s cheeks turn even redder, tracing with his eyes the shape of the mouth and eyes that haunted him beautifully. “I do. I really do love you.”

It was _maddening_ , the way he could feel Minho’s whole body go hot. “ _Chan_ . . .”

Whatever had possessed him back in the studio was back with a vengeance, demanding he tighten his hands on Minho’s hips and prop him up on the counter. He looked too stunning for anything else, Chan tried to reason with himself.

“Where”—a kiss to Minho’s lips—“did you find”—one to the collarbone—“ _Leebit socks_?” It was all he could do to not kiss those as well.

Maybe another time.

“An American Etsy store was making them,” Minho explained, eyelids just shy of drooping. “Leebit is objectively the cutest, so it felt only appropriate to support such an endeavour.”

Chan would contest that when he had more than half his brain function at his disposal. “And the apron?”

“It’s not my fault you’re usually too exhausted to notice it’s my go-to.”

Chan’s neck was much too close to snapping when he looked back up at Minho. “This thing is out _more than once a week?”_

Minho shook his head, lips spread wide in a precious grin, as he reached out to take Chan’s hand. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” Chan agreed, just a little too honestly.

Minho—amazing, kind, vigilant Minho—caught on perhaps even before Chan did. “Hey. Hey.” He swatted his foot somewhere at Chan’s back. Chan had almost forgotten how much more flexible he was. “I have bunny socks and a 50s apron on. You’re not allowed to be sad.”

There was probably something intrinsically problematic with that sentence, but all Chan could think about was how damn lucky he was to be able to just . . . _be_. Be like this, be with Minho, be like this _with Minho_. “You’re right. I’ll appreciate the socks more eagerly now.”

Minho nodded triumphantly. Chan would get onto his promise—everything about this was much too good to pass up on—but he very nearly choked on the sheer vastness of his love for the man in his arms. No one’s nodding should be that cute. No one’s cooking should taste like ambrosia. No one’s touch should feel so right from his hand to the base of his back.

And yet.

Chan leaned forward without a single modicum of a plan in mind, all kinds of pleased when he felt Minho sag against him. Minho fisted his shirt with a shudder, and Chan had to put every bit of his strength into not falling over. Every unstable emotion came crashing back down on him, much different in its impact this time, because it felt like he couldn’t touch Minho enough, couldn’t taste enough of him or hear all the noises he desperately needed to hear. Whatever it was that had settled over him, it was just a touch animalistic, and he couldn’t lock it away in some cupboard like he usually would. He was weak, and he was _completely_ okay with that.

What he was significantly less okay with was Minho pulling away and pressing a coy finger to his lips. When had they gotten so hot? “This is a one-time thing,” Minho whispered, and, really, all Chan could focus on was how his lips shone like gemstones in the kitchen’s low light. Did _his_ look like that right now? “No more homecooked meals for you, _hyung_.”

Chan knew what that meant. In much less words, Minho could have just said, _I love you_.

But Chan knew how to respond, because this was _Minho_. He leaned forward, nibbled and nipped at Minho's lips to see how much darker they could get. What reactions he could get. If he would be bitten right back. “Whatever you say, Min.”

_I love you too._

Each of them was content to lean back into each other, kiss until warmth bled through every vein, honey or molasses or gold. He could curl up here for days, shielded from the sun, shaped to Minho’s body for as long as he was allowed.

And because Minho only ever meant safety, a burrow untouched by the world, Chan knew it could be forever if he so asked.

Maybe one day, he would.

**Author's Note:**

> [commission a poor soul?](https://ko-fi.com/runningwstars) or just talk to me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/runningwstars) ?


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